


Sceleratus

by angelblack3



Series: Maleficum [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Sherlock, Homophobic Language, M/M, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 10:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12604336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: Hags are not common, but they do happen.





	Sceleratus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [You_Light_The_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/gifts).



> So this was supposed to be done for Halloween but screw it Happy Day of the Dead everyone!

There are stories of course. There are always stories. Wicked witches, crooked and gnarled from the evil they have cast upon the world. Examples abound in fiction. The sweet-smelling house meant to tempt children. The green-skinned enslaver hunting a girl and her companions. 

Most of it is just stories. A few forward-thinking witches and their supporters work to undermine those pop culture references. Articles upon articles about why it is harmful to view all types of witches (even necromancers and blood-whisperers) as destined to become bent crones, mad wizards, or manipulating temptresses. 

It became unnervingly predictable, that when people begin to think such portrayals belong firmly in old fairytales or cheesy television programs, that they find their way onto a major segment of the evening news. 

Sherlock watched John, who was watching such a report. The woman’s birthdate placed her at no older than fifty. Yet the photo displayed a withered hag, wrinkles that had become deep crags morphed their way into a hideous frown at the camera. The whites of her sclera were dyed a sickly yellow around the edges, and her iris had become nearly nonexistent behind milky cataracts. 

Sherlock knew perfectly well that it had done nothing to hinder her eyesight. She had aimed crackling electric energy with an accuracy that had been nearly deadly several times. 

It had taken a well-timed water manipulation spell, with John using himself as a moving target to tempt her into firing, before they’d finally been able to bring her down. Even with the electricity sparkling over her spasming body, she still hadn’t died. She was too powerful. But it was enough for John to restrain her until the authorities _finally_ arrived.

Kirstie Treblig, as she was known to her coworkers and family, had been a hard-working and no-nonsense nurse for upwards of twenty years. She specialized in the oncology ward. Her testimony stated that she had been ‘releasing’ her patients from pain for the past five years. A simple shock to the heart when they were already undergoing cardiac arrest was all it took. Never enough to leave traces, but more than enough to do the job. 

Sherlock was sure, that in her mind, her intentions were noble. Perhaps a patient had even begged her to make it painless, to make the suffering stop before they lost whatever scraps of dignity they had left. At some point, she stopped looking for requests, and decided for herself. 

She’d named herself the Tempest of Mercy. Sensationalist media referred to her as the Spark of Death. John called her ‘a pity’ when they’d loaded her onto an ambulance that had been specifically insulated. Sherlock, silently, had deemed her a dead woman.

He could still see the jagged arcs of blue lightning, sprouting from her fingertips to make their way towards the both of them. He could remember how they’d been separated by that blast as they leapt to either side. He recalled how, in a very detached calm that only comes with a surge of panic-induced adrenaline, he had logically thought about the sequence of events that would lead to John’s heart giving up from sheer strain should one of those bolts hit his chest.

The thought of that strong, yet incredibly vulnerable heart, never beating inside of John’s sternum was enough to pull Sherlock’s face into a snarl, and unleash an incantation of fiery rage straight at her face. Anger made his aim sloppy, and she’d easily dodged out of the way. 

Luck had been on their side that night. His fireball had broken open a rusty water pipe in the building. The water had been black with stagnation, but it had served its purpose.

Afterwards, Sherlock had taken John home and activated every runic inlay for protection and comfort. Nothing short of a hydrogen bomb was going to cross Sherlock’s threshold unless he had a say in it. Then he just led John to their room, and to their bed.

John’s eyes had been bright with victory, which had morphed to something far sultrier as he recognized where they were headed. He had expected things to end as they always did after such a close call like that. Frantic and passionate sex, where they congratulated each other with sweat damp skin and panting breaths. 

But this had been too close for Sherlock’s liking. Far too close. He remembered crackling light that had killed dozens, laced with the intention to kill two more. He could still see her face, contorted into a crazed grimace as her milky white eyes had stared at John as he fled for cover.

Sherlock pushed John onto the bed. The other man laughed as he bounced on the mattress. He still didn’t understand. Sherlock placed his hands over John’s when he began to unbutton his own damp and slightly singed shirt. 

John looked up at Sherlock curiously, but Sherlock couldn’t speak. He could only press his head against John’s forehead, and share the same breath. He pushed John down until he was lying on top of him. Comprehension crept up John’s face. He nodded, a solemn promise not to move.

Satisfied, Sherlock placed his ear against the hallowed space of John’s chest, until he could feel the steady thump of a heart reverberating along the side of his face.

He laid like that, counting every one, until he could hear John snoring above him. Sherlock did not have the slightest care over what this position would do to his neck in the morning. Sherlock wondered, for a moment, how he could have ever thought that silence had been comforting. How could he have possibly considered the absence of noise to be a peaceful environment, when Sherlock was surrounded by the soft snores, steady thumps, and shifting weight of his lover?

Sherlock thought of how close he had come to cradling cold flesh. He breathed out, and a frosted mist of cold fury caused John to shiver underneath him. He brought himself under control, and eventually John’s breathing evened again. 

Surrounded by familiar sounds, Sherlock shifted through the cold and shadowed corners of his mind palace until he finally found what he was looking for. 

On the news John watched the next morning, while Sherlock discreetly observed every breath, they displayed the mugshot of Kirstie Trelbig as they recounted her death of a sudden heart attack in her cell the night before.

~~~

It is not common for witches to become hags. But it does happen. The bright side is that it is easily detectable, in that dark magics will always, eventually, physically manifest themselves. Such practices always demand a toll.

The down side is that, by virtue of affecting a witch willing to commit to dark magic in the first place, they’ll often have a visage spell handy. Or at the very least be quite excellent with a makeup brush. 

Sherlock first noticed his changes after he stepped out of the shower. He supposed by anyone else’s standards, the difference would have been subtle. But his eyes were not glowing from the reflection of steam. He wiped away the misty residue on the glass to get a closer look. 

His silver eyes had taken on a sheen akin to a deep-sea fish or a light reflected in a cat’s eyes. It wasn’t immediately noticeable, but to him, his eyes might as well have been replaced with spotlights.

He tilted his head in different directions, curious to see how the harsh light of the bathroom bounced off of them. Eventually, he shrugged and dried himself off.

This was an easy enough thing to cover up. He doubted John would ever notice. And if he did, he could sham experimenting with different transmutations. Easy enough to believe that Sherlock would gamble his own eyes to try and see in the dark. Perhaps John would find it alluring. 

It wasn’t something that warranted concern. 

~~~

They were in a bar, because John had wanted a night out. As much as Sherlock treasured him, his tastes did tend to run towards the plebian. But that was rather a minor flaw. 

Sherlock sipped at his drink, and took quiet pleasure in the fact that John was clearly enjoying himself. His face was flushed with alcohol and good cheer, he bellowed at the screen as someone did something with a ball.  
Standing as they were, surrounded by others, John kept getting accidentally knocked into Sherlock’s side. John would use that as an opportunity to playfully brush his hands along the back of Sherlock’s coat or against his hip before pulling it away. 

It was their own private game, something no one else would notice. Sherlock took greedy pride in being swamped by strangers who had no inkling just how unlucky they were. 

The giddiness turned to soot when a woman stumbled into John’s side. She turned and swiftly apologized. John waved it away with an easy smile.

Her eyes focused on his face, his confident stance and his warm grin. She gave a small smile of her own, and tucked a lock of mahogany hair behind her ear. 

Sherlock quickly looked at John, who was wearing a sickeningly familiar expression of delighted surprise. 

The exchange had lasted barely two seconds. John glanced at Sherlock and looked appropriately chagrined. He turned back to the woman, probably with a polite dismissal.

It didn’t matter to Sherlock. He normally scoffed at the idea of impulsive decisions. What was the point of doing something if one did not consider the full weight of benefits versus consequences? But he wasn’t feeling logical. Sherlock felt petty.

He reached out to check, and did not feel the thrum of magic that surrounded all fellow witches. That made things far less complicated. Perfect.

After an unseen twist of his fingers, and whispered words that were inaudible over the din of the pub, the woman’s face drew down in sudden discomfort. She clutched her stomach and uttered some hurried excuse before she rushed towards the bathroom.

John had tried to go after her, suddenly concerned in the way he always was with strangers who were hurting. Sherlock grabbed him by the elbow, and leaned down so he could be heard. 

“No need to go after her John. She was slightly pallid and her shirt had a fresh stain that indicated she took the ill-advised route of the fish sandwich for her dinner.” There had been no such stain.

John looked torn for a second, but he was too polite to turn something from uncomfortable to embarrassing. And he was far too trusting to question Sherlock’s words. “Poor girl. That’s awful.”

Sherlock supposed it was. What would probably make it worse would be the fever and horrific hallucinations. No telling when that would start, but they should leave before the screaming started.

“If you’ve had enough here, I’d like to go back home,” Sherlock continued to speak into John’s ear. His hand left John’s shoulder, to trail down and place itself on top of John’s hip. 

John looked up and smirked. “Yeah, fair enough. Thanks for indulging me while you could.”

Sherlock snuck a kiss against the shell of his ear, “Anything for you.”

~~~

Sherlock stared at his fingernails. They grew rapidly around his mug of morning tea as he clenched it between his hands. They stopped a good one and a half centimeters past the ends of his fingers, and tipped into sharpened points. They looked like they were meant to gouge out honey brown eyes and scratch away soft smiles. 

He stood up from the table. John was startled from reading the paper, but Sherlock didn’t offer an explanation as he strode towards the bathroom. 

This was nothing a clipper and some filing couldn’t fix. 

~~~

“Oh, little brother. What have you done?”

The violin music screeched to a stop. He didn’t look away from the spot on his wall that he’d been staring at for the past, he checked his watch, two hours. 

John was out at the clinic. He had left Sherlock to his own devices for the day. The new spell work had lasted for perhaps three hours before he’d lost interest and moved onto other things to occupy his time before John returned. 

Now here he was, pretending Mycroft wasn’t taking up space in his doorway, looking at him like he was a pitiable and mangy cat he’d found trembling in some alley. 

“It’s inconsequential,” Sherlock said. Because it was. Semi-gleaming eyes and fingernails that had to be _constantly_ filed wasn’t an issue. It wasn’t. 

“I would say you’re headed down a slippery slope. But you’re already at the bottom of the trench. What remains is to climb back up before you sink any further into the muck.” Mycroft had not moved from the doorway, oddly enough.

“I hate it when you use metaphors on me. Stop trying to speak doubles, I don’t have the patience for it today.”

“Very well then. To put it plainly, Sherlock, you need to tell him.”

Sherlock carefully set his violin to the side. He stood up in a fluid motion, like a massive predator conserving its energy to prepare for a lunge. “What?”

Mycroft tapped his umbrella once against the floor, a nervous tic he had never managed to squash down. 

“Whatever way this ends, and there are many avenues, it does not end fortuitously unless you confront whatever petty fears you harbor and tell him the truth like he deserves.”

“Exactly how many times have you stuck your fat nose where it doesn’t belong? How many ‘endings’ have you Foreseen, Mycroft?” Sherlock took a step forward to push Mycroft out of his house. Down the stairs, if need be. 

He saw gloved hands tighten around the handle of the umbrella. Mycroft still hadn’t stepped inside of the door. Sherlock stopped abruptly.

Now that he knew the emotion, he could practically taste it on the air between them. A sickly-sweet miasma that was almost addicting.

Fear. Mycroft was afraid of him.

But then Mycroft truly considered the question. And his face softened into something far more disgusting. Pity. 

“Too many,” Mycroft confessed. “And in nearly every one, you become something that I no longer recognize.”

The air stilled between them. There was a long pause as both brothers made a decision. 

“Leave, Mycroft,” Sherlock’s request was not subtly disguised as a warning. 

Mycroft’s shoulders sagged. But he turned. And walked down the steps. 

As the door shut, Sherlock wondered if he would ever hear from him again. He pondered what would keep Mycroft away for good. Shame in what his shared blood had become, or shame in himself for failing to stop it? 

It didn’t matter. Mycroft was, as always, being melodramatic. This was manageable, and barely noticeable. This was nothing to be concerned over.

~~~

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ Sherlock hissed to himself as he flew down corridors.

Blind luck had kept him from waltzing into that silver encrusted room. If he hadn’t sneezed, hadn’t noticed the dust that was far too thick for such a new building, he would be sagged against a poisoned wall and slowly seeped of all magic until he couldn’t perform a damned card trick. A trap like that would take time before it was effective. A human wouldn’t be impacted in any way. 

Separation was key. Pick off the supposed weaker one while the notorious magic user choked on precious metal. 

Simple enough to pull off if said sorcerer was a _fucking fool_ who thought dismantling an anti-magic extremist group was merely a good way to kill a Sunday. What a fucking marvelous plan, to split up their power and incapacitate them on two fronts. 

They’d either anticipated the idea, or were planning to separate them somehow regardless. Either way, Sherlock had walked right into their trap with eyes wide open and an imbecilic grin on his face. 

If any of them had touched John, he was going to turn this place into cinders. 

He rounded a corner to the only logical place John would have gone based on his trajectory and their combined goal. 

When Sherlock’s eyes finally registered the scene, in every crystalline detail, he felt the same calm he did when Treblig had arched lightning in the direction of John’s heart. 

The benefit of going against a group that thought themselves clever, was that they had no reason to worry about a plan backfiring. None of them noticed as Sherlock stood in the doorway. The benefit of going against cruel people, was that they tended to take their time.

John was on the floor, arms wrapped around his head and neck to prevent any cranial injury. He was curled up in the fetal position, but his legs were doing a poor job of protecting his ribcage. Kicks and stomps pummeled his body like heavy hail. Sherlock couldn’t hear if John was yelling or grunting in pain.

He was too distracted by the laughter.

Jeers and slurs fell from the lips of the six men as though they were rocks being lobbed at a heretic. They goaded him, asked him if he was truly so tough as the papers led him on to be. Called him weak without his super-powered faggot. Called him a twisted fuck. 

They suggested, with sickening implication, what other freaky shit he might be into. 

Sherlock didn’t even know he had raised his hand until he could see his fingernails--No, his mind whispered, claws—steadily turn black like ink spreading across paper. He twisted his hand, and all six men suddenly froze. 

A few swiveled their heads to look towards him, the others were too panicked to truly comprehend what was happening. Sherlock tasted that intoxicating scent that had emanated from his brother not too long ago. It swept around him like a cloud, and he shivered when it left icy trails across his skin.

Sherlock blinked, and stared with renewed intent at the six trembling, wretched insects. He twisted his hand further inwards, like he was wrenching something loose. 

All six violently shook, suspended in the air as their bodies arched from sudden agony. Wet gurgles and pleading screams echoed from the concrete walls. It was shortly followed by a sound similar to a large tree that had lost dozens of thick branches simultaneously.

The wails abruptly cut off after that. Sherlock released his hand, and six corpses hit the ground with a wet thud. White ribcages protruded from all of their torsos, exposing varying degrees of a red pulpy mess that used to be functioning organs. Sherlock had been aiming for their hearts, for poetic purposes, but that sufficed.

He looked at John, expecting to see awe and wonder. John was half-standing, and should have been wincing at the pressure that should have put on new wounds. Instead he was staring at Sherlock, eyes wide, covered in the gore of the filthy and the unworthy. 

Sherlock recognized that expression. He quickly moved forward, “John, it’s alright, they can’t hurt--”

“Stay away from me!” John shouted, and nearly slipped in a puddle of viscera in his haste to step back.

Sherlock rocked back, stunned. “John, what--”

“No, no you don’t get to act surprised by—you don’t get to look at me like—what the _fuck_ is this?” He gestured wildly to the massacre he was still standing in the middle of. “Using your powers to take down an aggressive hag is one thing, manipulating shit so that a runaway criminal is practically tripping balls on his own nightmares is another, but _this_? Fucking hell, Sherlock, this is just—this is just a slaughter! And when the hell did you even get the power to do something like this?”

John did have a point, at that last part. With all of the great things Sherlock was capable of, this was beyond his abilities. Six paralysis spells without so much as a spoken word, followed by an incredibly dark use of telekinetic magic, was almost unthinkable. Nearly unbelievable. Yet here he was. Victorious.

Something slithered across Sherlock’s face, and it was John’s horrified look that made him realize it was a smile.

“Fuck,” John whispered, “oh, fuck me. You’re turning.”

“No.” Sherlock lied. “John, I’m sorry I scared you. I truly am. I saw what they were doing and I…reacted. Poorly. Let’s go home, and forget this ever happened.”

“Are you out of your _mind_? You just murdered six people! They didn’t even have magic to defend themselves! No, fuck this. We’re going to Scotland Yard first, gore covered clothes and all, then we’re going to get you to a fucking healing witch so they can fix whatever---whatever is wrong with you.” 

John pivoted and started to stride away. Sherlock privately thought it was rather endearing, the way John expected to be obeyed in this matter. As though what he was saying was the only course of action they were going to take. 

But there were other avenues. So many endings to this tale. And Sherlock did not fancy being locked away. He did not like the thought of being kept from John. 

He moved like a shadow, quick and flitting, and John’s head was between his hands before John could even look behind him. 

“Let’s go home, John. And forget this ever happened,” his words crept like spiders into John’s mind. They weaved thick webs of confusion and compulsion, until it was impossible to pull the clinging strands away. It was a shame to watch those blue eyes go dim with obedience, but it would have to do until Sherlock could access his forget-me-nots again. 

~~~

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Lestrade said to them, inside of the same room, over two days later. His face seemed to have aged five years from what he had seen. “Either these poor bastards tried to grab the wrong fucking magic user, or someone was a bit pissed about their stances on witch existence.”

The bodies were as Sherlock had left them, now in the beginning stages of decay. John was standing a little farther back than normal, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression dim. “Jesus,” he muttered for the fifth time under his breath. 

John turned his head towards Sherlock, a question in his eyes. In his pockets, Sherlock’s clawed hands twitched in preparation before John asked, “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

Sherlock looked down. Blue eyes looked back up at him with trust and openness. Like Sherlock had the answer to every question in the known universe. 

“No,” Sherlock said, as he surveyed the scene with his own appropriate amount of interest at discovering something new and macabre, “this was done by someone far more powerful than I am.”

John shivered, “Oh, good to know. Didn’t need sleep tonight anyway.”

Sherlock rubbed John’s arm in comfort, his hand hidden from sight with his usual leather gloves. 

John jerked back a little bit. Sherlock donned confusion while something cold and slithering waited to spring to life inside of his chest, “Something wrong?” 

“No, no it’s just,” John shook himself, and leaned back into Sherlock’s touch. “Sorry, must be the scenery. You just felt a lot colder for some reason.”

~~~

In the bathroom once again, Sherlock placed his ungloved hand against his pale chest. He waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Forty. Nothing.

He had no heartbeat.

Sherlock stood there, staring at himself in the mirror. Slightly glowing silver eyes passed over his body accusingly. They settled on his black clawed hand, settled against a sternum that would never be warm again.

Well, that wasn’t true. He had John. And there was no one that would do a better job of being a heart than John Watson.

He could still manage this. A warmth charm and a minor illusion were easy enough to craft. John didn’t need to know. 

John didn’t need to know a lot of things. 

This was all for love, right? That made this different. That made this _far_ different. This wasn’t some crusade for a supposed merciful death. This was love.

This was right.


End file.
